All the Way Home
by Ista
Summary: Castiel goes back in time to save the Winchesters from a particularly nasty nature goddess, but who will save him? Takes place during non-specific season. Two-shot Christmas fic.
1. And Since We've No Place To Go

**All the Way Home**

 **Summary:** Castiel goes back in time to save the Winchesters from a particularly nasty nature goddess, but who will save him? Takes place during non-specific season. Two-shot Christmas fic (hurt followed by fluff).

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own anything related to _Supernatural…_ Darn.

 **Warning:** Some violence, gore, and character deaths (but not permanent!)

 **Chapter 1: And Since We've No Place to Go**

Snow had already been steadily falling for over an hour by the time Castiel drove up in his beige Lincoln. He parked across the street, coasting over the new precipitation with a purring engine and the dampened thud of tires packing down soft flakes.

 _Oh, the weather outside is frightful…_

A well-known carol inexplicably drifted through his thoughts as Cas exited his car.

The Men of Letters bunker sat in the side of the hill like some ancient stronghold, oblivious to the silence and the thickening pearl carpet coating its walls.

The angel was terribly late.

Sam and Dean had been expecting him around 8 PM at the latest, and it was now close to midnight. But gas stops had to be made, and traffic was slow to begin with. It was, after all, Christmas Eve.

And then the snow had stalled the flow of traffic even more, and Castiel had given up all hope of being punctual.

Hastily, Cas picked up two small, wrapped parcels and slammed his car door shut, sliding a bit in the ice as he crossed the street to the bunker. An unexpected flutter of excitement raced through him. He would be spending a holiday with his closest friends, and they had convinced him to take the entire next day off.

An entire day off from other-angel-avoidance, end times research, and relentless solo hunting. Not to mention a day off from working at the Gas-n-Sip, an establishment he had resorted to working at part-time at to pay for car fuel.

It was going to be unlike anything Cas had experienced since living semi-permanently on Earth: a day of rest.

Then Castiel got to the bunker's entrance and stopped.

The front door was wide open.

"Sam? Dean?" he called tentatively and nudged the door further ajar with the toe of his shoe to peer inside.

What he saw made him drop his presents on the side of the doorstep.

The floor of the foyer was covered with blood.

Human blood.

 _No._

With a flick of his wrist, the silver angel blade slid into his palm. He stepped cautiously inside and peered down the staircase.

Castiel sucked in his breath.

He didn't notice the silver tufts of tinsel curling around the banister like a shiny snake. He didn't notice the cheery multicolored lights strewn haphazardly across the ceiling in the main hall. He didn't notice the Christmas tree decked with glinting ornaments, and a gold star on top, at the base of the stairs.

What he saw was red, and it was thick and fresh, and it was everywhere.

Blood. Too much blood to belong to just one person. Too much blood for a person to lose and still be alive. The coppery scent of it was still cloying and cut through the perfume of fir and cinnamon. It competed with another smell that Castiel only recognized through his time spent working at a human job, performing menial labor.

It was the putrefying stench of garlic and coffee grinds, moldy leftovers and spoiled milk.

Garbage.

The angel's stomach churned. He couldn't breathe. Castiel stumbled outside, into the fresh air, and he nearly tripped getting down the steps. Then he fell to his knees, and a strangled sob escaped from his throat, from Jimmy's throat, from the vocal chords that could never express the sorrow of an angel. But the noise was piercing and echoed down the quiet street.

Snowflakes fell silently on his face and clothes, coating them in a fine powder, and all Castiel could think about was that the two people he loved most in the world were dead.

The angel stood after a moment. He pivoted back to the bunker, and an unpredictable (yet completely viable) solution popped into his mind. One thing was clear: Sam and Dean would _not_ die tonight. Not as long as he was still alive. Not as long as he was still blessed with the ability to travel through time.

The servant of the Lord closed his eyes and tapped into a pervasive _hum,_ a note that embodied the sound of time. He dipped his hands into that writhing mass, and, like a whirlpool, spiraled through waves of iridescent oceans until he came out the other side like a newborn.

Castiel staggered and leaned against something smooth and round for support. It was a streetlight, and it shone upon a quiet street in Lebanon, directly in front of the bunker.

The angel felt his head ache and vision swirl. Blood trickled from his nose, and he wiped it away absently with the back of his hand, turning his attention to the sky. It was growing darker, filling with clouds. No snow yet, but soon…

 _Good,_ his muddled brain thought. _Now I wait._

He guarded the entrance to the Men of Letters fortress behind a bush. Perhaps he should have warned Sam and Dean—somewhere in the bunker right now, expecting him, decorating, preparing a meal. But Castiel didn't want to involve the Winchesters. Time travel was tricky enough; the fewer the variables, the better.

It was better for them not to know. Better to have this night unspoiled. If he could succeed, that is.

Castiel waited, but he didn't have to wait for long.

She arrived with the snow, and she was beautiful. Her dress was emerald green, her hair the color of a raven. She carried a cream-white sack, slung over her shoulder, and she floated as she walked, like any goddess would. Castiel shivered when he saw her.

It was worse than he feared.

Angel blade still in hand, Castiel stepped from the shadows into the hazy yellow glow of the streetlamp. Over head, small flakes began to drift down, sleepy and peaceful.

"Perchta."

She was nearly at the bunker's threshold when his voice stopped her. She turned around slowly, and her smile lit up the darkness.

"My quarrel is not with you, angel."

She was about to turn around when Cas said, "I will not allow you to harm my friends."

She smiled again, teeth wide—unnatural.

"Your friends thought they had killed me. They thought I was the ghost of some poor girl, and they salted and burned her bones. But I am no ghost, and I am _raging._ "

Castiel trembled at her power yet held his ground. "What happened?"

Perchta looked down, lost for a moment. Perhaps she wasn't expecting a sympathetic ear. "They cut down the forests. All the trees—they're dead. And it's a celebration, they say. They declare this _slaughter_ a holiday."

Castiel stepped closer, his voice low and gentle. "This happens every year, Perchta. Every year, the trees get cut down, and you forget, and you become angry. But the trees _will_ grow back. They _always_ grow back."

"No!" she screamed, and the wind rustled with the sound. "No—I will have _vengeance._ Those two tried to stop me from my kill, albeit unsuccessfully, and they will pay like all the others."

As she spoke, the goddess of nature began to shrink in stature, and her dark brown hair showed streaks of grey. Her elegant gown began to appear dirty and rumpled, matching the increasing number of wrinkles standing out on her face. She was morphing into the form she took every winter—the old hag.

Perchta cackled as she opened her bag, which was now a plastic sack, and the sickly stench of waste wafted through the snow.

"See? This is what humans create. It's what they _are._ So I'll stuff them with it, like a turkey, until they get their fill!"

Castiel lunged at the goddess. His angel blade bore down and thrust at an angle. Screeching, Perchta dodged his attack and kicked him in the side, sending the angel sprawling across the dusted concrete. Castiel ignored the way his head spun and immediately picked himself up, trying to for another go. This time, however, the goddess produced a thick blade that shone black, like obsidian. He managed to knick her leg before she whirled away from him, exerting a tremendous amount of power for such a small frame. The angel's blade flew from his grasp and landed several feet away, burying itself in the accumulating snow alongside the road.

The angel grunted and raced towards his blade, but Perchta delivered a quick succession of punches to his face, bringing him to his knees. The angel moaned, spat blood, and got a better grip on the goddess. He threw her aside roughly. She landed against a telephone pole, denting it, and it gave Castiel the chance to limp towards his weapon.

It wasn't in his hand five seconds before an iron grip tightened around his wrist, causing bones to snap painfully. Castiel screamed as he looked fearfully into the goddess' green eyes, glowing in the sickly light of the streetlight. Her teeth glistened, stained and pointed, and she brought her blade down.

It pierced his left shoulder, which caused Castiel to cry out again and for brightness to pour from the wound like a spotlight. Following the traces of grace came blood, and a lot of it, rolling in thick waves down his shredded coat, flecking his blue tie.

But it was only Perchta's penultimate blow. As she brought her black blade up again, she said, "Back to the trees, the earth, the sky…"

Castiel closed his eyes and imagined those words as the last Sam and Dean would ever hear, her piercing green eyes the last image they would ever see. He had failed them.

He froze in a flinch, expecting the fatal blow to land, but nothing happened.

When he opened his eyes, Perchta's own green orbs were wide and glassy, her mouth open in a silent scream of pained surprise. Castiel was just as bewildered as she was until he looked down and saw the demon blade protruding from her chest.

Her green eyes flashed once more, like a flickering candle flame, and her body disintegrated into fine grey particles, like ash, that blew away with the next snow flurry.

The King of Hell stood in Perchta's place, still holding onto his weapon.

"Bit far from the alps," he said dryly.

Castiel could only manage a choked, "Crowley…" in greeting. He wiped gore from his mouth, and his vision faded in and out. Light from the streetlamp behind Crowley framed the demon's head in a gauzy halo, and the angel wondered if he was dreaming.

"Hello, feathers," Crowley growled. The demon blade disappeared in his hands, and he turned his collar up against the snow. Is this a normal angelic tradition—hunting goddesses on Christmas Eve?"

Castiel brought a hand to his shoulder wound and winced. His shoulder stung, and his right wrist throbbed, most likely broken. He tried sitting up and found it was too much effort.

"N-no. I went back in time to save Sam and Dean from Perchta. She…She had killed them."

"I see," said Crowley, his eyes showing only a bare minimum of interest. He sniffed around the frozen scene. "Looks like she would have killed you too if I hadn't been in the neighborhood."

Castiel blinked and bled.

"You're welcome, by the way," Crowley grumbled. The demon rolled his eyes when the angel didn't respond and offered Castiel a hand up. The Lord's servant accepted with his left hand and groaned, stumbling into Crowley as he tried to regain his feet. His head swam again, and he felt bone-tired.

"Thank you," Castiel said slowly.

Crowley sighed, supporting the angel upright, as if this entire ordeal was becoming tedious. "Honestly, I'm not sure _why_ I keep saving you. Not like it does me any favors…" He eyed the battered angel warily, as if Castiel was going to collapse at any moment.

"Well… Aren't you going to heal yourself?"

"Yes…" Castiel pocketed his angel blade and stepped unsteadily away from the demon, swaying on his feet. "But first I have to return to my time. Time traveling has always… drained me… Must use my remaining energy for the journey back…"

The demon made a "tch" sound. "Are you sure that's wise in your condition? I'm not entirely convinced a snowflake wouldn't knock you over."

Castiel frowned. "It is too dangerous for me to stay any longer than I have. I do not want to risk hurting the future. I must go back to just after I originally left and not run into myself. Whatever power I still possess then, I will use for healing… But it will take time…"

The demon nodded and began to walk away. "Happy Christmas, angel."

His form disappeared just past the lamppost, leaving falling snow in his wake and a set of footprints that abruptly stopped.

The snow began to come down in thicker flakes that cut through Castiel's clothes, and he shivered. His vision darkened, then cleared, and he concentrated on pooling his energy into one purpose: getting back to his present.

Castiel closed his eyes, dipped into the ever-changing tide of time, and lost himself in its eternal and continuous ebb and flow.

He slammed into the white-covered cement about a block from the bunker. Castiel moaned and rolled over, feeling for the broken bones in his wrist. Blood poured from the wound in his left shoulder, and fresh blood flowed from his nose. He coughed and produced more red stuff that stained the snow beneath him.

For a moment, Castiel's sight fuzzed out, and he almost gave into the peaceful bliss of unconsciousness, but then he remembered the Winchesters. He had to make sure they were safe.

Castiel staggered to his feet and began to walk, slowly and stiffly, toward the bunker, pausing every few steps to catch his breath and wait for the dizziness to abate. Determined, he walked on despite his injuries until he was less than a half a block there, and then his knees buckled.

TBC

 **A/N:** Ohhhhh nooooo! Whatever will happen to poor Cas? And YAY for Crowley! I don't know why, but Cas/Crowley interaction always gives me the feels.

Thanks SO much for reading and reviewing! Virtual frosted sugar cookies of gratitude for everyone!


	2. Let it Snow

**All the Way Home**

 **Chapter 2: Let It Snow**

 **A/N:** Pure Fluffy McFlufferson. With marshmallows and whipped cream on top.

Castiel staggered to his feet and began to walk, slowly and stiffly, toward the bunker, pausing every few steps to catch his breath and wait for the dizziness to abate. Determined, he walked on despite his injuries until he was less than a half a block there, and then his knees buckled.

But instead of falling onto the frozen concrete, hands grabbed his waist and shoulders and pulled him upright. The grip was firm, strong, and it belonged to…

"Crowley…?"

Castiel was astounded for the _second_ time that night. Through the haze of pain and weakness, he peered into the King of Hell's brown eyes and tried to determine a reason for the demon to help him.

"I waited in the bloody cold for nearly an hour to see if your little scheme would work. Wanted to see if you'd make it back in one piece or several."

"I… I don't understand." Cas couldn't hide the exhaustion in his voice. "Why do you care about what happens to Sam or Dean or… me?"

Crowley shrugged. "Seems a bad omen to sit back and watch an angel die on Christmas Eve. As much as I loathe my mother, her lessons about karma were not lost on me."

Castiel nodded without understanding. The demon's words just flowed together, blocking his way to his true mission—his _only_ mission, really. What else had he been put on Earth for but to protect the Winchesters?

So he continued on, and his legs promptly gave out again.

"Steady, steady!" Crowley said gruffly with annoyance, and the bearded demon hefted most of Castiel's weight, keeping him upright as he determinedly plodded on through the accumulating snow.

"I'm sure they saved some figgy pudding for you—or whatever it is humans eat at Christmas now."

"Have to…make sure…they're safe," Castiel wheezed. Thick white powder coated most of his dark hair and coat now.

"The _god_ is _dead_ ," said Crowley emphatically. "You can relax."

Still, Castiel continued on, stopping only when they reached the steps because he seemed to have difficulty lifting his feet and keeping one hand on the railing at the same time.

Crowley huffed and hoisted Castiel's weight upwards, half-dragging the angel until he was leaning heavily against the demon before the giant door of the bunker.

The King of Hell waited, pursing his lips. Finally, he said: "The suspense is killing me."

Castiel rolled his head in Crowley's direction. His sight spun, and he knew he couldn't stay awake much longer. In response, Crowley pounded his fist three times onto the heavy metal door. The two stood, bunched together, listening to the echo of the knocks.

All Castiel could think was: _Let Sam and Dean be okay. Please._

A warm relief rushed through Castiel's veins when the door opened moments later to find Sam standing—alive—before them. His smile quickly vanished when he saw them.

"Dean!" he called downstairs. "We have a problem!"

"Sorry… 'm late," Castiel managed to get out. His tongue felt too thick and rubbery.

"Cas—what happened?!" Sam gasped. "Crowley?!"

The demon smirked. "Hello, Moose."

And with that, Castiel lost his grip on consciousness.

* * *

Sam's heart thudded in his chest as Castiel tipped forward limply. Crowley maintained his grip on Castiel's left arm, but Sam stepped forward and caught Cas on his other side. In a matter of seconds, he took in the angel's battered face and gash on his left shoulder, streaks of red seeping through khaki. When Sam dashed forward to brace Cas, snowflakes fell from the angel's hair. Sam's breath ghosted in the air, and he turned to Crowley accusingly.

"Who did this? What happened?"

Behind him, Sam heard his older brother's footsteps clomping up the stairs in a hurry and prepared himself for a showdown.

 _Dean is_ not _gonna like this._

Crowley was as nonchalant as ever, speaking with a tone that implied slight inconvenience, if not boredom, at the situation.

"Castiel found you and Squirrel dead in the bunker. He went back in time to save you from a particularly nasty nature goddess."

Then Dean showed up, wearing a bright green apron with white buttons and red frilled sleeves. The apron was dusted with flour, and he wiped his hands on it—his eyes widening at the scene. Sam bit his lip to hide any amusement that crossed his face when he saw Crowley's reaction to Dean's get-up—a mixture of bemusement and true fright.

"Cas…?" Concern bled through his older brother's voice. "Crowley—what the _hell_ did you do?"

"It was a nature god," Sam began, but Castiel lifted his head and mumbled something. Sam tilted his head to hear.

"What was that?" Dean barked.

Sam repeated, "Alpine goddess of nature."

Crowley nodded in agreement. Dean looked back and forth between all of them, trying to size up the situation, realization showing in his eyes.

"Son of a bitch," the older Winchester muttered. "It wasn't a ghost after all."

Sam thought back to the case that had occupied them for the past week. Deaths at a Christmas tree farm, sightings of a strange woman who disappeared into thin air. Dean had assumed it was a vengeful spirit, and they had salted and burned the bones of two previous owners—both women—with the hope that the spirits had been put to rest and the murders would stop.

"Clearly," said Crowley. "Anyway, your faithful sidekick was about to become an angelic kebab when I stepped in and eliminated the god. Castiel returned to this time, but the act seems to not agree with him."

"Time travel always wipes him out," Sam said, more to Dean than to anyone else. "It might take him awhile before he can heal."

Dean nodded. "He's shivering. Let's get him inside."

The older Winchester took Castiel's left side from Crowley, and the angel winced as the movement pulled at his injured shoulder. In response, Dean whispered something to Cas that Sam couldn't hear, and they gingerly began to move down the stairs with their friend. However, after a couple of steps, Sam paused and looked back at the demon standing in the doorway.

"Do you… Do you want to come inside for awhile?"

"Sam—" Dean tried to interject, throwing his brother a warning glare.

But the younger Winchester protested. "You saved Cas and… We owe you one. It's the least we could do on Christmas Eve."

Crowley stood very still, his face expressionless. Sam thought he might be witnessing true astonishment in the King of Hell for the first time.

"Thank you for the offer, but I think I shall—"

"And Dean made, like, a _dozen_ pies! You _have_ to try a slice!"

Crowley hesitated, then something softened in his face—just for a moment.

"All right," he said. "I suppose I can't turn down a famous Dean Winchester fruit pie. Is the secret that you have to wear that hideously maternal apron during the entire baking process?"

Dean clenched his teeth, and for a second, Sam thought he wasn't going to let the demon inside. But when Castiel sagged against him, the older Winchester rolled his eyes and relented. "Just lock the door on your way in."

Crowley slammed the bunker door shut with a _clang_ , a satisfied little smile in the middle of his bearded face, and he followed the others as they slowly descended the stairs.

Castiel's head lolled from one Winchester shoulder to the other, and Sam used the extra time it took them walking down the stairs to admire the decorations he and Dean had put up within the last few hours. So many twinkling lights—the grand tree by the gigantic table in the main hall, tinsel wrapped around the staircase's banister, red ribbons adorning the columns downstairs. The scent of cinnamon and apple wafted from the kitchen, mingling with the smell of pine and vanilla. Sam felt proud of this place that had become their home.

Their angel friend moaned, and Dean said, "Just a little farther, Cas."

They took him to the den where a cartoon Christmas movie was playing on T.V., its sound turned down. The Winchesters set Cas gently on a cushy brown sofa, and Dean dashed off to get medical supplies.

Sam removed Castiel's trench coat with some coaxing; it was half frozen from the snow and bunched together when he hung it up to dry. The younger Winchester was so absorbed with immediately taking care of Castiel that he completely forgot about Crowley until he saw the King of Hell lurking in the den's doorway.

"Hey—Dean has some really good Scotch hidden in that cupboard," Sam said, pointing to a nearby heirloom piece made of cherry wood. "Help yourself."

Crowley inspected the cupboard, and Sam heard the clinking of bottles and glasses.

"Laphroaig," the demon commented. "Impressive." In a few minutes, Crowley was seated in a leather armchair next to the sofa, drink in hand, and feet propped up, right at home.

Dean grunted at the sight of the demon when he returned but was too preoccupied with fixing up Cas to make a big deal out of it. Sam bit his lip in amusement and at the absurdity of the situation.

 _Here we are, patching up an angel while the King of Hell sips Scotch and watches "The Grinch" on T.V. Just your average Christmas Eve with the Winchesters._

Dean was about to zero in on Castiel's injured shoulder when Sam noticed the way the angel was cradling his right wrist.

"Cas, can we…?" The angel's too-shiny eyes spoke volumes, that he didn't _want_ to show them his wrist, but Castiel held it out to them anyway. His skin was pale from cold, and Castiel's fingers were splayed with pain.

Sam winced. "Yeah, that's broken."

"We'll just put a brace on it for now," said Dean.

Cas trembled when the older Winchester handled his wrist, but he didn't make a sound.

Then they moved onto the shoulder wound. Dean hissed through his teeth and shot Sam a look that the younger brother instantly interpreted: this gash required stitches.

"Just so you don't lose any more blood," Sam explained to Cas. "Until you can heal yourself."

"I understand," the angel said in a small voice.

While Sam prepared the needle and thread, Dean found an enormous fleece blanket with cats on it, laying it across Castiel's body and tucking in the edges. Then he left and returned moments later with a mug, an enormous dollop of whipped cream on top. He handed the mug to Cas with a grin.

"Drink up," Dean said.

"What's this?" Cas puzzled over the mug's contents.

"Hot chocolate," Dean said.

"And whiskey," Sam muttered under his breath as he worked.

Dean's grin widened. "It's tradition!"

"Thank you," Cas said and sipped the drink thoughtfully. Inevitably, a blob of whipped cream ended up on his nose, and Sam wiped it off with a napkin.

Castiel squirmed at first when Sam began to stitch him up, but he gradually relaxed. Meanwhile, Dean sanitized the cuts on the angel's face, spreading ointment on them. Soon, they were finished.

"Thank you," Cas repeated, his voice calm, his face gaining back some color. "I—I was so worried earlier that I had lost you…both of you… And I didn't know what I would do—"

"Shh," said Dean. "It's okay. _We're_ okay. You saved us both." He exchanged another look with Sam, the "we dodged a big fat bullet again" look.

"We're grateful to you, Cas," Sam added.

Cas rasped, "It was really Crowley who saved you."

"I modestly agree," piped up the demon beside them.

"All right, all _right_ ," said Dean. "We have _both_ of you to thank."

The angel sipped his drink, and the demon sipped his. Then Dean had forgotten about a pie he'd left in the oven and dashed out only to return minutes later with steaming slices of apple heaven for everyone. Crowley approved.

Christmas movies were watched. Castiel's eyelids began to droop, and he sank deeper into the cushions, flanked on either side by Sam and Dean, who wouldn't let him out of their sight.

Sometime after one in the morning, Crowley's deep voice said, "Happy Christmas, boys."

When Sam looked at the armchair, the King of Hell was gone.

Dean inhaled another slice of pie and was about to put a striped pillow behind Castiel's head when the angel jerked upright.

"The presents!" he exclaimed.

"Jesus, Cas!" Dean said, frozen in place. "You scared the hell outta me—"

"Easy, man," Sam said more gently. "Don't wanna pull your stitches out."

Castiel blinked a few times, as if just remembering his wounds, although Sam didn't blame him. Within the past few hours, the horror of his friend showing up on their doorstep covered in blood and propped up by the King of Hell seemed like a dream.

"But…the presents," Cas said again. "I completely forgot about them—they are probably still outside." He made a move as if to stand, but Dean put a hand on his shoulder.

"It's OK, tiger. I got this."

Sam distracted Castiel by showing him how to work the remote until Dean came back with two soggy packages, their red and green bows droopy with melting snow. Castiel frowned and took them carefully from Dean, examining them.

"I don't think the water seeped through the boxes," he said slowly and then handed one to Sam and one to Dean with a sheepish look.

"Merry Christmas," Castiel said.

Never one to hold back on holiday festivities, especially when a present was involved, Dean ripped through wet wrapping paper and tore through a cardboard box to reveal…

"It's an… _awesome_ rolling pin!" Dean nearly shouted, holding it up like a trophy, beaming.

Sam looked closer and saw what looked like a normal wooden rolling pin, except that it was embossed with the word AWESOME in maroon letters, and there was something else…

"Is that…the Impala?" Sam murmured.

Castiel nodded. "It's from Poland."

"It's AWESOME!" Dean cried out and drew Castiel into hug that he quickly withdrew from when he realized he was tugging on the angel's injured shoulder. Cas offered a soft smile and turned to Sam, expectant.

Sam took his time opening his smaller present, still smoothing aside sparkly green wrapping paper that practically disintegrated with his touch. Then he delicately opened the cardboard box, pulling out a pair of earbuds.

"Fitclips!" he said, and he laughed. "Cas, how did you know that I lost my old pair?"

"Someone _might_ have hinted to a certain angel about what a certain giant needed for Christmas," Dean said, deadpan. Sam chucked the wad of mushy wrapping paper at his brother and said, "Thanks, Cas. These are perfect!"

Then Dean excused himself to tidy up the kitchen while Sam helped Castiel lie down on the couch (he didn't want to move from his prime position in front of the T.V.), and Sam examined his new earbuds while "Let it Snow" played on the Yule Log.

" _Oh, the weather outside is frightful, but the fire is so delightful. And since we've no place to go…"_

Castiel was asleep by the time Dean got back, and the two brothers quietly made their way to their rooms to get some sleep.

"Tonight was one for the books, huh?" Dean said with a yawn.

"Yeah," Sam agreed and inexplicably pulled his older brother into a hug before Dean could protest. "Glad you're okay."

Dean pulled away, his eyes surprisingly shiny in the dim light of the hallway. "Ditto."

As Sam drew his comforter up to his shoulders in bed that night, he imagined he could hear the sounds of nature outside, even though all noise was blocked in the bunker. He imagined the wind grumbling like a demon's voice, and he imagined the snow falling, softer than an angel's wings.

~Fin~

 **A/N:** Suuuuper cheesy at the end, everybody! But I felt like most of us needed something a little sweeter right about now. Happy Holidays, everyone! Thanks so much for reading and reviewing! Virtual sugar cookies of gratitude to everyone!

~Ista ^_^


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